


Bloody Valentines

by just_a_dram



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drunkenness, F/M, Kissing, Suicidal Thoughts, Threats
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-12
Updated: 2013-02-17
Packaged: 2017-11-29 02:39:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/681778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/just_a_dram/pseuds/just_a_dram
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of angsty and romantic oneshots written for the gameofships Roses Are Red, Weddings Are Too event. Chapter 1 and 4 are Jaime/Sansa fic. 2 and 3 are Jon/Sansa.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pater

**Author's Note:**

> Jaime/Sansa

His hand spans the width of her back. Her head fits just against his shoulder, when she has slipped free of her slippers and he still stands in his boots fresh from stalking the ruinous halls of Winterfell.  
  
There is no reason to feel safe in his arms. The cool of the gold, seeping through to her scalp, is reminder enough that he is a man not to be trusted. But in his arms, fitting just so, there is the illusion of it. She feels a girl again, and though she would never admit it, for he wouldn’t like it, it would make him growl and snap, she closes her eyes and pretends.  
  
 _I was a girl once_ , she thinks, curling her fingers into his overtunic embroidered in gold—not grey. _I was held like this. All innocence and dreams._ She pretends she is a girl and she pretends he is someone else. Someone whose embrace was nothing but kindness and warmth.  
  
The illusion is destroyed when he fists her thick auburn locks and tilts her head back to worry her flesh with lips and teeth, and in that moment, Sansa sighs not with pleasure but with regret.


	2. Tears Such As These

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jon/Sansa  
> tw: suicidal thoughts

Sansa doesn’t know how she came to sit on the ledge. Just as she doesn’t know what castle it is her legs dangle from or whether they march north or south, for the winter brings snow no matter where one turns. She only knows that she is alone.  
  
Jon does not often leave her. Since the day he found her in the Vale, he’s slept close by. In her tent he sleeps with his back to her. He’s awkward enough, refusing to turn towards her, but the heat of his back along the length of hers is a comfort. Even in these unfamiliar castles, where they lodge for a night, he sleeps in a chair before the door of whatever chamber their hosts offered her. As the man they all would call king should this war ever end, he certainly merits his own bedchamber, but he never leaves her side, not at night.  
  
Alone inside these strange walls, a crushing pressure lodged in her chest, and the only way she knew how to relieve it was to throw the window open and let the winter in. That still wasn’t enough, and she peers down and wondering if her arms would flail like Lysa’s or whether her blood would be bright like Petyr’s.  
  
Her fingers grip the rough sill, as she leans forward. It would be so easy to fall. She could stop holding her breath, waiting for the next terrible thing if she only…  
  
An arm suddenly about her waist jerks her through the window so quickly that her ankle bangs hard against the stone. But not even the sharp sting awakens her from her fog and her knees dip when her feet meet the floor as if she’s a ragdoll.  
  
 _Jon_ , she realizes, as he swings her around.  
  
“Sansa,” he barks, shaking her. “What in the name of the gods?” She looks up into his face, and it is the contortion, the hurt she sees there, pulling at the scar over his cheek that startles her awake. “Sansa,” he demands again, sounding desperate and betrayed.  
  
She cracks, the hurt filling her until she chokes on it. A woman’s tears are a weapon, but Sansa’s, as Jon drags her into his chest, are that of a wounded animal, pathetic and pointless. She can’t contain them. Her sobs are ugly and real and would seduce no man.  
  
His hands clutch her waist, her back. They drag through the unbrushed length of her darkened hair with less hesitation than she’s come to expect from him, and her body curls into him, forgetting for a moment who he is.  
  
She’s always forgetting someone. Mostly herself.  
  
Forgetting is easy. She tilts her head to kiss his bearded chin and it’s only a rise on her toes and a stretch of her arms around his neck to find his lips, warm and soft. Alone she will end up in pieces, for the effort of holding herself together grows too much. But he’s still and stiff and she bites down, gripping his dark curls in her fists.  
  
He groans. Finally, she feels his reluctance crumble like so much snow through open fingers, when his tongue traces the seam of her lips, and when they meet, her knees dip with want, not emptiness. He wants her too; she knows it even though their kisses taste of salt. Maybe even tears such as these can be useful.  
  
She hiccups and he pulls back to stare down between them, his fingertips still at her waist, his chest rising and falling. She never dressed this morning and her white linen shift hangs half off one shoulder, where Jon’s hands disturbed it, she realizes, when he reaches up to brush a tangle of hair away from her face. The calluses on his palm graze her brow, and as his fingers twine in it, she hates that her hair is the wrong hue. She’d shear it to be rid of it, but they’d think her mad.  
  
Perhaps she is.  
  
“Jon, who am I?” She’s asked before, but it’s always worth asking.  
  
“Sansa Stark, my sister.”  
  
And she can see his guilt, when he confesses it.  
  
“But I’m not.”  
  
“My cousin then. Lady of Winterfell. Queen of the North if you like.” That holds no appeal: she is as afraid of what sort of queen she would be—trained by Littlefinger—as she is of being alone. “Only, don’t,” he begins, his fingers digging into the flesh of her shoulders, “don’t let me find you like that. Don’t let me find you _after_.”  
  
“Dead?”  
  
His jaw flexes in response.  
  
It would be a foolhardy promise, and as convincingly as she can lie, Sansa would rather not. But she can think of ways to silence his questions and soothe her hurts for now. A woman has more tools than tears.


	3. Overindulgence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon/Sansa

Sansa reaches for the goblet, but her fingers fumble with the stem. It crashes over on the table with a clank. Nothing spills forth.  
  
 _Empty._  
  
“Lady Sansa.”  
  
She turns, glancing towards the door and looking down to meet the voice’s gaze. Tyrion moves towards her, his hands gripping his red velvet overtunic.  
  
She manages a smile turned grimace. Her nerves are frayed, and it is more difficult than usual to play the courteous sister of the Prince Who Is Promised.  
  
“You have spilt your wine,” he observes, pulling himself up in the chair next to hers.  
  
She would have spilt it if there was anything left to spill. “Yes. Terribly clumsy.”  
  
“Not usually,” he says, leaning across the table to fill her goblet.  
  
Sansa assists by righting it, wetting her lips in anticipation of more.  
  
He nods at the unstained table. “Good luck that it was empty.”  
  
She can think of no response, as she feels rather dull, so she wordlessly raises the refreshed goblet to sip its spiced contents.  
  
She is clumsy today. She can feel it in her limbs. Tilting the mouth of the goblet just a hair too far, a few drops spill over the edges of her lip. She moves to catch them before they drop on her dove grey silken gown, pressing the back of her hand to her mouth with a sniff.  
  
Nothing goes right.  
  
She glimpses at Tyrion with a gentle bat of her lashes, but he looks queerly back at her, his mismatched eyes narrowed.  
  
“Excuse me for saying it, my lady, but you’re drunk.” She sets the goblet down heavily, pursing her lips, but before she can protest his rude assumptions, he adds, “And Lord Snow wouldn’t like it.”  
  
She rolls her eyes. “Never mind that. I dare say I shall be sober by the time he emerges from her chamber.”  
  
She immediately regrets her words, and as her eyes slip closed, she touches her palm to her brow. “I’ve overindulged. Please pay me no heed.”  
  
Tyrion is wrong: Jon wouldn’t care if he knew she was drinking more than she should. He’s busy in discussions with Daenerys. There are two claimants to the throne and the kingdom needs an heir. Jon gets along well enough with his lovely aunt. There is more than one person in the Seven Kingdoms who thinks the solution easy enough, and perhaps they have reached the same conclusion, for hours have passed since Jon entered her rooms alone.  
  
“I will gladly forget your indiscretion,” he says not unkindly. “Although, I think you have misjudged what passes behind her closed doors.”  
  
Sansa looks down her nose at him. “I won’t discuss such sorted things.”  
  
“Perhaps you won’t, but I’m not above it.” Sansa moves to stand, and Tyrion’s hand grips her knee. “She’s fond of Jon. I have no doubt she will indulge his wishes.”  
  
“Then I’m very happy for them both,” Sansa stutters.  
  
“Happy? You’re pickling yourself.”  
  
“Out of joy,” Sansa deadpans.  
  
Tyrion chuckles and pulls back his hand. “Do you not care to hear my opinion on what your Jon Snow’s wishes might be?”  
  
“I doubt very much I could stifle an opinion of yours, as repugnant as it might be for me to hear it.” What Sansa wants to shout is that he is not _her_ Jon Snow, that Daenerys will take him from her, as the world has taken everything from her, but she manages to bite her tongue, though her chest heaves from the effort.  
  
“It is _you_ he wants.” Sansa stares back at Tyrion, her eyes gone round, her breath held. “I dare say they’ve been in there so long, because he’s slow to admit it.”  
  
“Jon is too…” she begins, trying to summon a defense of him, of his honor, but she can’t find the words, as her heart races in her chest.  
  
“Would you like to spend your days staring back at that sullen face, Lady Sansa?”  
  
 _Yes._  
  
“You’re being ridiculous,” she says dismissively, coming to her feet and steadying herself against the table with her fingertips. Even if she wouldn’t mind hearing more of this opinion of his.  
  
She bites her lip, holding back a smile. It’s only idle supposition. It might mean nothing.  
  
“You could interrupt their little meeting. Tell them your opinion on the matter. Just a suggestion,” he says with a shrug before draining the remainder of the goblet’s contents himself.  
  
Barge in and announce her desires? It certainly wouldn’t be very ladylike, but she’s not been a lady before. She was a bastard once too. She can be bastard brave as well.


	4. A Game of Debts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime/Sansa

Jaime wakes to a lithe leg slung over his hip and firm breasts depressed against his chest. A hand snakes around his middle and a head of wavy red hair tucks itself under his chin.  
  
“Some of us are old and need our sleep,” he grumbles, rolling them until she is pillowed atop him.  
  
“Not me,” she says, as her Tully blue eyes stare brightly back at him  
  
“No, you bloody infant.”  
  
“I couldn’t sleep.”  
  
She often can’t. It was the flimsy excuse that began this whole business—him and her. A warm body beside her made her feel safe. It wasn’t long before it was more.  
  
In the dark, she reminds him of her. He forgets that she is dead, and this girl, though tall and comely, is nothing like her. Principally because she is alive. With living desires that he both needs and hates to tend to.  
  
“And what can I do for you?” he coaxes, his hand slipping beneath the furs to grab her rounded arse.  
  
“I’ve been thinking,” she says, as she rocks against him and reaches blindly for something on the table beside the bed.  
  
“Sounds tedious.”  
  
He latches onto her neck, sucking, raking his teeth over her tender flesh. He might be past his prime, but he already grows hard against her soft belly. If he can only stop her thinking, stop her speaking, they might both find relief for a space.  
  
Her hand fists in his hair, and she tugs his head back, arching his neck. She’s not usually so rough—he wishes sometimes she would use her teeth and nails, that she would twist and bite, so that he might clash with her and soothe her in turn, but she never does—and he quirks one brow, smirking at the unexpected turn this dance has taken.  
  
“My lady?” he purrs.  
  
She stares thoughtfully at him, her rosy bottom lip dimpled by her teeth, and he waits for the bite of those teeth into his neck, perhaps his shoulder, or even at his ear. But the bite he finally feels is sharper than teeth, when the wrist of the hand she used only a moment ago to reach for something shifts, jabbing something under his chin.  
  
“Valyrian steel,” she whispers, as she pushes the tip of the blade harder against his throat. “Dragonbone hilt. I believe this dagger belonged to your family, ser, and it has occurred to me that I might sleep better if I paid my debts the way you Lannisters do.”  
  
He thinly laughs through gritted teeth. “Sansa, sweet one, you don’t even know how to use a dagger.”  
  
“Petyr.”  
  
 _Ah, yes. Petyr._ The shewolf made a mess of it, but the lifeblood left him all the same. Jaime will not be a pretty sight in his coffin if Littlefinger is anything to go by.  
  
She breathes fast and his racing heart makes him draw shallow breaths, so that they pant against each other in taut silence until she breaks, “You killed Bran.”  
  
“Tried to.” Her hand begins to tremble, and she hiccups when the shaking blade pricks his skin, drawing blood. “ _Careful_. We’ve always been honest with each other, Sansa.”  
  
“You lie every night,” she spits back.  
  
He has moved slowly to free his remaining hand of the furs until it hovers behind her head. He could seize the blade—he thinks it would take very little dexterity to disarm her—but he strokes her hair instead, smoothing the wisps away from her furrowed brow, brushing his thumb over her temple.  
  
“Only to myself,” he promises. “No different than you.”  
  
She leans into his touch and a tear drops, splattering against his bare chest.  
  
He twists his head, gaining a fraction of an inch from the blade’s pinch. “I don’t think this will help. If it would, I’d offer myself up to your Stark justice.”  
  
It’s true. Sansa is the only thing tethering him to this world, and if she needed him dead, he would bleed for her. It began with honor. He can’t call what it has become love. On their worst days, he feels shackled to her. On their best, he forgets who they are and appreciates beauty, pleasure, and hunger again.  
  
“It might,” she says, her voice breaking.  
  
“Then think on it in the morn and kill me in better light,” he offers, as his hand closes over hers.  
  
Her arm is stiff, but it gives under his strength until the blade clatters to the floor.  
  
Her eyes close with a sob that mostly obscures his heavy sigh, and then he’s as gentle with her as he would like to be rough, for he can lie to himself, but he cannot lie to her.


End file.
